


Mournival Waxing

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Reality, Brotherhood, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Pastiche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Even after all that had happened, even after Saul and Tarik and Vipus had been lost, Loken still finds himself longing for the glory days of the Sixteenth. There's no cure for this sort of homesickness as there's no home to go back to. All he wants is to find and kill the daemon possessing Tarik. He wants nothing more to do with this war of vengeance and broken futures.But the galaxy has its own rules. It, too, has a love of melodrama. And the returning prodigal son soon discovers that the confraternity of the Mournivalwillbe remade, regardless of what he wants.Divergence!fic centering around the Mournival, branching off at the beginning of Chapter 24 ofVengeful Spirit.





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> The end goal of this fic is to have the confraternity of the Mournival restored, come hell or high water.
> 
> Will update the Dramatis Personae as characters are introduced. This fic is rated M for descriptions of violence; there are no plans for anything more than brotherhood and strong friendship between the characters.
> 
> ...Okay, and maybe a bath scene or two.

-~ **DRAMATIS PERSONAE** ~

-

_The Primarchs_

HORUS LUPERCAL: The Warmaster, Primarch of the XVI Legion  
LEMAN RUSS: The Wolf King, Primarch of the VI Legion

-

_The XVI Legion 'Sons of Horus'_

EZEKYLE ABADDON: First Captain  
FALKUS 'Widowmaker' KIBRE: Captain of the Terminator Squad, First Company

TARIK TORGADDON: Luperci, Neverborn, now Tormageddon. Former Captain, Second Company

IACTON 'Half-Heard' QRUZE: Knight Errant, former Captain, Third Company

HORUS 'Little Horus' AXIMAND: Captain, Fifth Company  
GRAEL NOCTUA: Squad Leader, Twenty-Fifth Company, Warlocked

TYBALT 'The Either' MARR: Captain, Nineteenth Company

GARVIEL 'Garvi' LOKEN: Knight Errant, Last Captain of the Luna Wolves, Prodigal Son


	2. ONE: Failure to illuminate

PART ONE  
RETURN

-

-

-

_It takes something from you doesn’t it? Being deserted hollows you out, and leaves a void inside. People might say that it hurts, that the psyche aches from the wound._

_It’s not true though. Abandonment does not leave pain. You wish it did because that would be better than the truth. It leaves nothing. Not hope, not pain, not forgiveness. Nothing._

\- captured conversation from Sar Luther, 007.M31

-

-

-

[ONE]

Failure to illuminate  
The blood of a brother  
Aborted infiltration

-

-

-

Aximand is not the only one who's been plagued by dreams since Isstvan. But while the other captain is treated to a variety of scenes, some past, some present, for Abaddon there is only one. It's been five years since the subjugation of 63-19 and it's the two of them on the tiled floor of the observation deck.

There's none of the initial adoration in Loken's eyes. None of the camaraderie they had so carefully cultivated over the years.

 _Then tell me, Ezekyle,_ his erstwhile brother is saying, and though the words don't match his expression, oh, how Abaddon longs to believe, _and maybe I’ll beg. We were brothers once and we can be again._

But he -- he had been a fool. His head had been filled with anxiety since the Warmaster revealed his plans. If all were as he said, then they were surely on the right path. And why would the Warmaster lie? The scene plays, always the same no matter how he roars and rages from his spectator's seat, and he hears himself saying:

_Forget this until after Isstvan, Loken. After Isstvan, this will end._

He had been right; Isstvan had been the end. And still, the dream replays itself.

-

-

-

That the Knights of Malcador believe they can infiltrate the Vengeful Spirit is laughable. That _Loken_ thinks it possible makes it all the more absurd. And even while wearing that ugly unmarked power armour, it's still without a doubt Loken.

The erstwhile brother. The prodigal son. Loken.

-

The Warmaster asks for an audience with Abaddon soon after the discovery of the breach. His lord and master has changed much, seems to have grown too big for his skin at times, but when it is the two of them in his card room, Abaddon harkens to the days of 63-19 without meaning to -- to the days of Ullanor, even.

"Ezekyle," Horus greets.

"My lord."

Horus smiles, reaching out a hand. Abaddon obliges, allowing himself to be pulled into an adjacent seat.

"My son," Horus intones, "My first captain. Tell me, what do you suggest I do with the stowaway Garviel Loken?"

Hearing his full name brings back a wave of memories -- of better, happier times. Abaddon swallows, furious at himself for this sort of mental slip-up -- the whole point of wallowing in violence was so there would be no need for moping sessions like those of Aximand. "I would suggest you allow me to finish the job," he says after a moment. The _I will not allow myself to fail you a second time_ hangs in the air, unspoken.

But when he blinks, he sees the four of them, illuminated by the false moonlight in that palace garden. And when he focuses his gaze again, he finds the Warmaster toying with a skull perched at the edge of the throne.

"Once, one of my brothers came to me," Horus says, apropos of nothing that Abaddon can make out, "After I had publically ordered him to kill one of our own. He pled the case of our mutual Primarch on the basis of his past friendship. Although the offending brother lies here with me," and here, he carresses the jaw of the skull, "I had already given my consent to spare his life."

This is how his father has always been, Abaddon thinks, and it's so very understandable yet frustrating. He knows his own desires so well, knows that they line up with those of his subordinates -- in this case, himself -- but he still considers it bad form to state them outright, as if giving substance would banish thought.

So though both of them -- and hell, Aximand too, if his fearful gazes are any indication -- want this, want Loken, want _Garviel_ back on their side: as a captain of the Sons of Horus, as a member of the Mournival, as a son and a brother and an ally and a friend, Abaddon is the one who needs to voice this.

"Father," he begins without hesitation, "I ask that you do the same for my brother."

Horus raises an eyebrow, turning from the skull to his favoured son. "You want me to spare him, Ezekyle? Under what grounds?"

So. His sire did not mean to make it easy. No matter, this hopeless case has been stewing within Abaddon ever since Isstvan III.

"On the grounds of his merit, my lord, as well as the circumstances of his departure from his post."

"Illuminate me."

"Loken held you in the highest esteem. Your well-being was the sole source of our falling-out and even after I refused to explain the situation to him, still, he begged for me to convince him, so that we might be able stand on the same side."

"Oh?" This episode seems to spark genuine surprise in Horus' eyes. "Our Garviel asked you to persuade him to our side? And you refused?"

"Yes, my lord. And I will forever regret it."

"Why did you refuse?"

"I -- " there is no fitting answer, for the reason flitters from week to week. Sometimes he is angry, other times he is unsure; sometimes he is suspicious, other times he is competitive. "I had been overcome by my humours," Abaddon says at last, "Your -- state of convalescence turned me more choleric than usual and I was not in the right mind to convince him, even if I had taken that opportunity."

"Are you blaming me, then, for your brother's betrayal?"

"Never. The fault rests on my shoulders entirely. Had I convinced him when he asked..." Abaddon can't begin to imagine.

Horus, too, seems to be on the same train of thought. His hands leave the skull entirely and he steeples his fingers. "Yes," he agrees, "I imagine things would be much easier if a man of Garviel's character were on our side."

Abaddon waits with baited breath.

And then, at last --

"Yes," the Warmaster says, "You have my permission to bring Garviel Loken back into our fold."

Abaddon immediately stands to attention, performing a formal salute. "Thank you, Lord Horus -- Father -- " he chokes out, "The Mournival will be your right hand once more."

As he is turning to leave, however, Horus stops him with --

"Oh, and Ezekyle?"

Abaddon turns and sees his lord holding his brother's skull yet again.

"Yes, Father?"

"Take every effort not to kill your brother. It is a terrible thing," he shakes his head, "I can't begin to imagine what Aximand is going through." The way he says it makes it clear Aximand is not the only example.

It's half-suggestion and half-warning, but it aligns with everything Abaddon suspected. Everything he has _wanted_.

"I understand," he answers, bowing his head, "And I thank you again, Warmaster, for this second chance."

-

Abaddon has already thought of half a dozen plans to isolate the Knight Errant from his teammates, each one backed with some patchwork method of detainment. But he cannot for the life of him, despite his promise to the Warmaster, think of a plan which results in Loken returning or staying of his own free will. But then he has never considered himself much of a thinker, which is why he agreed to the creation of the Mournival in the first place.

His closest brother, Little Horus Aximand, is increasingly difficult to locate. It used to be that he was either in the sparring chamber or the mechanics' workshop, but after Abaddon has checked both those regions -- along with his private quarters for good measure -- he, out of frustration, opens communications on-deck and asks for the location of his brother.

It is Aximand himself who responds, and Abaddon storms into the communications' chamber only for the reprimand of -- what on earth is an Astartes doing amongst computers? -- deflate upon itself.

Abaddon is used to towering over his fellow Astartes. Aximand (and Torgaddon, thinking back) had been the exception, matching him eye-to-eye and blow-for-blow more often than not. His face too, after the tussle on Dwell, looks more like their father than his own. Abaddon does not know if he could wear a scar so well.

But in this room where their kind has never needed to tread, his brother looks small. So small -- almost a _man_ \-- hunched over the monitors with his fists clenched as tight as his jaw.

"Horus," Abaddon says instead, "I seek your advice on a matter of great import."

His brother does not even look away from the screen, much less converse with him. Abaddon waits a beat before crossing the threshold and standing before the screens.

Of course Horus Aximand would have zeroed in on their fallen comrade, lurking in the dimly-lit chambers of the lower cargo bay under the mistaken belief that there weren't cameras installed on every angle of the Warmaster's ship. Loken has taken his helmet off and is conversing with his new -- mistakenly-made -- comrades. The screen has been so adjusted that Abaddon cannot see anyone but Loken. One of the other intruders must say something humorous, for Loken's face splits into a wry grin and it is Aximand rather than Abaddon who ends the transmission with a jealous cut of communications.

And still, Abaddon cannot tear his eyes from the screen. The events of Isstvan III seem like weeks rather than years ago, and he can still remember how desperately he fought to claw himself out from the rubble, how he had gone back in without hesitation to retrieve Aximand who had in turn insisted that they bring back Torgaddon's body. And through it all, he had looked -- fruitless and faithless though he had been -- for some sign of their missing fourth brother.

But now -- now that both hope and fear stands before him --

"I dreamt of him," Aximand says, so short of breath it is as if he's been brought into a meditative trance, "I dreamt of him for months before Dwell and then I saw his face and I felt relief for if he were dead then I had no need to fear him and yet -- and yet I --"

His brother is weeping, even as he pushes himself up so that they are once more at eye level.

"Come," Abaddon says instead, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We should talk elsewhere."

"What is the meaning of this, Ezekyle?" his brother asks of him.

"The Warmaster has spoken. He calls it a second chance." And then, when Aximand's face goes ashen in the dim light, he reiterates: "It's a matter of time before Torgaddon will be successfully revived. After we sway Loken back to our side, all will be as it should have been."

His brothers' eyes are alight with wonder.

"Did he," he asks, more than a little incredulous, "Did Lupercal really _say_ that?"

"Yes," Abaddon answers. "He did."

With a great cry made ridiculous by his usual sonorous pitch, Aximand throws himself against the First Captain, embracing his brother in full despite their armoured selves.

"Thank you," Aximand murmurs, "Thank you, thank you, thank you -- oh, Ezekyle, I hadn't dared to hope, I -- " Abaddon gingerly returns the embrace, shaken more by the memory of tears than the actual expression of sorrow. But then, after Isstvan, neither of them had been the same.

"So I say," Abaddon continues, "But I need your help."

"Yes, of course, _anything_ ," Aximand answers, pulling away and setting his jaw once more. "Let us illuminate Garviel then, let us receive him as our brother once more."

-

The problem, then, is that between Abaddon's choler and Aximand's melancholy, they've not an unshakeable argument between them.

It's agony, absolute agony, to debate what to say when the object of their plotting -- plotting!, this was what they had been reduced to, plotting Astartes! -- was three floors under and still unaware they had already detected his presence. While his brother is bouncing a couple more ideas off, Abaddon slips into the practice dome, starting and ending a simulation round. He's not broken sweat or short of breath by the end of it and still, he stops, terminating the program and sliding the doors of the ring open.

"Enough talk," he says, "While we're sitting here debating, our brother remains under his mistaken impression."

"It'll be just like Ullanor then," Aximand quips, though Abaddon is not blind to the flicker of relief at the re-acknowledgement of their bond, "Well, I'm sure we can wing it."

Abaddon smacks him on the back for good measure. "Leave the jokes to Tarik," he snorts, "Your melancholia is no good for it."

"So says the choleric," his brother bites back.

-

It seems fortune favours them as, when they reach the cargo bay, there is only Loken remaining. He is standing upright with his sword and bolt in hand, but his back is turned and he does not seem to notice their intrusion.

The parliament house at Isstvan floods back into his memories and -- Throne of Terra, how could it have been three, no, almost four years ago?

All of a sudden, the stretch of ship floor seems like leagues and though Torgaddon is not yet fully revived, it's as if he's here.

Abaddon feels something catch in his throat. Something else stops him in his tracks. But Aximand has no such reservations, he sucks in a deep breath and then _shouts_ \-- actually shouts -- Loken's nickname before crossing the distance in the blink of an eye, nearly barreling into his brother. Or he would have, had Loken not turned at the still-familiar voice, weapons raised. Aximand is not so foolish as to keep going; he draws his sword and it makes a seering klang against Loken's and Abaddon is drawing his bolter gun and at this range there's no question about hitting him and --

"Garviel!" Aximand repeats again, and oh god, how long had it been since Abaddon has heard this voice, his brother's voice taking this pitch?, "Garviel Loken -- it -- it's really you! You're not dead. My dreams weren't lies." How he manages to get this message across while parrying and thrusting is testament to their training as Adeptus Astartes... or perhaps, by Luna herself, Loken is just as affected.

"Little Horus," Loken says at last, "Ezekyle." His voice is different and their names sound odd, rusted from disuse. Then he shakes his head, eyes burning, "No. Aximand. Abaddon. How long have you known? Where are the others?"

"As soon as you entered," Abaddon answers, right as Aximand admonishes: "Garviel! How could you speak to your brothers as strangers!"

It is telling and, perhaps, oddly heartwarming, that Loken neither repeats his unanswered question nor responds to Abaddon's goad, saying instead: "We stopped being brothers on Isstvan."

"No," Abaddon interjects, mentally making a note to have words with Aximand at a better time (even after his facial feature surgery, it was a travesty that the other could look so wounded, and by nothing but words!), "We stopped being brothers long before that. When you held the word of Remembrancers -- " and even now, the designation seems like poison on his tongue, " -- above ours."

"Ezekyle, stop that," Aximand reprimands -- surprisingly sharp. And then he turns to Loken and, in a truly conciliatory gesture, takes a step back, "Garviel, we're really not here to fight. The Warmaster has said that he'll allow you to return to our ranks -- that he wants you back."

"Is that what you're here for?" Loken demands, looking from Abaddon to Aximand with unveiled disgust, "So I can get on my hands and knees and beg for you to take me back?"

His disgust begets hurt from Aximand and outrage from Abaddon.

"No, Garviel, you've got it all wrong -- "

"Aximand, I can say without hesitation that any brotherly love I felt towards you ended when you killed Tarik -- "

"I never wanted to!"

"And besides, Tarik is getting revived too."

This tidbit at least, causes Loken to lose balance.

"...What?"

"The cloning procedure has been perfected for Astartes," Abaddon elaborates, "It's only a matter of time before Tarik returns, memories and all."

"Garvi," Aximand pleads (for there is no other word to describe the pitch of his tone), "Garvi, I know you've come to kill us -- "

"To kill the Warmaster," the Knight Errant corrects. The truth makes both of them flinch.

"But it's not as you've imagined it, really."

"You are the ones who've been blinded!" Loken rages, stepping forward and thrusting his sword. Aximand blocks it, but only barely, and Loken continues with: "If you had been more insistent with the Warmaster, if you had kept him from risking his life on Davin -- "

"You know how he's like!" Abaddon roars, entering the fray once more, "Once he sets his mind to something, it's impossible to change course!"

"It was _our_ duty to steer his mind in the right direction!"

"We were counsel and nothing more! And besides -- "

"Don't you dare," Loken snarls, "Don't tell me that Isstvan III was justified. Don't you _dare_ say that Tarik's murder -- " and here, Aximand outright recoils and Throne, he's noticeably bulkier than Loken, as they both are, so how is it that he ends up looking the weaker?, " -- was just or necessary."

"On Isstvan," Abaddon starts, taking a more restrained tone and an altogether different approach, "You begged me to enlighten you. To bring you back into the fold. Do you remember?"

Aximand does a most suicidal thing then, and Loken must still hold some heart for him, for he allows it. He looks away from his opponent, just one glance at Abaddon, and is amazed to see something approaching regret in his foremost brother's expression. And then he's looking back at Loken who is like a tautly-pulled bow, all edges and muscles and ... and where are the other stowaways even at this point?

"I remember," Loken says at last, and his throat sounds parched with age.

"I should have made more of an effort," Abaddon says. "I had thought that the Warmaster would speak with you, that you might hold your tongue until after the initial skirmish, but I should have made more of an effort."

"You made enough of an effort," Loken answers. It should be a sneer but comes out as a breath. "I would not have been convinced. I was a Luna Wolf before I was a Son of Horus and I remain a servant in the service of the Emperor, beloved by all."

Abaddon catches Loken by surprise for a second time, collapsing his bolter gun and setting it back. He says nothing though, and the role of wordsmith falls on Aximand.

"I dreamt of you," Aximand says again, "I dreamt of you and I wept when I thought you were dead."

"I would have gladly died for the Emperor," Loken snaps.

"The Warmaster wishes to speak with you," Aximand blurts out. "He wants to explain things to you and sway you back to our side." This, evidently, is news to both Loken and Abaddon. But whether it's a bluff, a lie, or something approaching truth, Aximand sees his advantage and presses it. "You could have killed me a dozen different ways in the time we've spent talking, but you haven't. Surely that means something, doesn't it?"

"No," Loken says, but his voice is no longer certain.

Aximand throws his blade aside with a roar.

"Well go on then! I know you hate me for killing Tarik -- I know you don't believe me, but I hate myself for doing so as well -- so have at you! Go on!" And though Abaddon is fast, Loken is of course faster, and his blade is at Aximand's throat before Abaddon can rearm his bolter.

But Loken does not finish the motion.

"You can't do it, can you?" Abaddon asks.

"Abaddon," Loken snarls, "Shut up."

"You can't. There's no shame in it. I couldn't either."

And then Aximand says -- looking down at Loken with pained relief in his eyes -- "Garviel -- My brother -- how I've missed you -- "

"You lot of traitors will be damned," Loken curses, throwing his own blade to the side. Aximand whoops, embracing him whole-heartedly, and though they're still ages away from being whole, they all realise that they've taken the first step. "Alright," he acquiesces, "Give me an audience with the Warmaster. But when he inevitably kills me, I want you to know that I'll haunt your dreams for the rest of eternity."

What else is there to say to a threat like that? Abaddon forgets himself and lets a grin crack through his features, slapping a hand on Loken's shoulder.

"Off with you then," he grunts, "The Warmaster waits."


	3. TWO:  The usual time-waster

[TWO]

The usual time-waster  
A father's indulgence  
Traitor

-

Aximand reveals his offer to be a bluff when he leads his brothers into a training room before hurrying off to speak with the Warmaster. Loken has, surreptiously but not without notice, sent some sort of message to his current comrades after picking up his discarded blade. There are traitors from the 63rd amongst them, Abaddon knows, but he cares not a whit for them.

So they stand in the training room, facing off one another. Abaddon is sizing him up and he is certain Loken is doing the same.

At last the not-silence gets to him and he opens up one of the sparring cages. Loken turns to the motion, but gives him a blank stare when he holds the door open.

"What?" Abaddon prompts, "Have the years robbed you of your ability to spar?"

Loken clenches his jaw at the challenge, but steps in nonetheless. Abaddon follows and the cage door slides shut. They've done this enough times in the years past to know one another. Abaddon picks up a force blade while Loken unsheathes his chainsword and were the ability not wrested from him during his conditioning, Abaddon might've recoiled at their choice of weapons.

But Istvan is but a few scant years ago, and already they are changed men. Both of them, then, bring something new to the spar. For Abaddon, it is a sliver of restraint, something rubbed off from the Warmaster most likely. Whereas for Loken, there is an undercurrent of wrath never before present in their play-matches. Abaddon counts three four five times where the other needs to stop himself from pressing his own advantage and steepling into a finishing blow.

And still, they fight on, clashing blades, bumping shoulders, growing short of breath and bloody and bruised and Throne, Abaddon had almost forgot what it was like, going toe-to-toe with someone who had fought him to a draw in a Terminator suit. And they've both improved, if such a thing were possible, looking at the footwork alone. There are practically no missteps and the match is almost like dancing, for how they flit from one corner of the cage to another.

Abaddon is assaulted with a vision of the other, when he had just been brought into their brotherhood. There was a cage match against Lucius, right after he had bested Erebus, and Loken had been nothing short of glorious in that moment and Abaddon had thirsted and hungered to seize that glory, to take up a sword and show the crowd who was truly the strongest of the Mournival. The vision distracts him, and his distraction makes Loken misstep, thinking Abaddon is either tarrying or feinting. But Loken is still Astartes and his senses are quick, too quick for himself even, and he reacts before he can process Abaddon's footwork and therein lies his mistake. And so the chains of his sword draw dangerously close to Abaddon's face, even as the fight slips from his fingers.

Five years absent and facing defeat and still -- Loken can bleed him.

There is some fraternity left in the other, made evident by his own surprised -- nearly horrified -- expression at the rivulet of blood. He sheathes his sword, robbing Abaddon of his imminent victory and raises a hand before dropping it to his side. Abaddon reaches up to touch at the wound; the theatrics are just that; already it is sealing shut.

A small crowd of some dozen Astartes have gathered around their ring, hushed whispers and equally shocked faces. What is more of a surprise, to see the return of the prodigal tenth captain to their ranks, or to see blood drawn from their first captain in a spar?

Loken tightens his jaw but says nothing.

Thankfully, Aximand returns then, saying that the Warmaster is ready to hold an audience with Loken, and the cage door opens and the two of them step out. Aximand raises his eyebrows at the fresh wound, but he's too giddy at the return of their brother to follow his own teasing through.

-

Though he's in the most familiar of places and with the most familiar of companions, Loken has never felt so far nor so out of touch. Here he is, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, within steps of being able to avenge Torgaddon if not release his soul, and his heart is as chained and heavy as it had been on Istvan. He can hardly believe his ears -- that Ezekyle and Little Horus want him back, that the _Warmaster_ wants him back -- and he takes grasp of what he remembers of Torgaddon to shield himself from the obvious answer. But this can only be a trap to get him, the strongest link in their boarding-crew chain, away from the others so that his comrades could be snuffed out one by one. As for him... well, the Sons of Horus (and the Luna Wolves, for that) had never experienced traitors -- not until Istvan III that is -- so there was no protocol to fall back on. Perhaps a public listing of sins followed by an execution?

Garviel Loken does not, at the least, fear death. He had thought himself dead for the past three years, and descended into a sweet and heady madness up until Garro shook him out of it. But what if everything was a dream? What if he were dreaming now?

And the whole thing does feel very much like a dream, now that he is reconsidering his own senses. Abaddon and Aximand are exactly as he remembered them, though Aximand's complexion has changed somewhat, and not from age. Is his subconscious attempting to fulfill his desire to see a wound inflicted from Torgaddon? Regardless, his senses seem dull and a buzzing fills his ears as he follows his once-brothers through the familiar corridors of the battleship, each step like the pull of the hanged man to his noose.

That is, until they reach the Warmaster's statechambers.

Horus has not deigned to receive him in the audience room -- Loken is no visiting dignitary, after all. But the innermost rooms bring up another swell of longing, of nostalgia.

And then the guards at the doors are letting them through and Garviel Loken comes face to face with his gene-father, the first Primarch, the Warmaster himself.

Horus Lupercal has changed. Rebellion has aged him considerably and yet, he somehow manages to look even more godly than before. And the sight of him alone is proof enough; Loken might be able to dream up his brothers-in-arms but his imagination is leagues insufficient to paint the Warmaster in his glory.

Loken sinks to his knees at the same time as Abaddon and Aximand. It is impossible to remain standing in the Warmaster's sheer presence. He feels the churning of bile, the dizzying need for attention, to be noticed and praised, and keeps his gaze on the Warmaster's feet, as Aximand had said, just so the goal of the mission will not slip through his mind entirely.

The mission... the mission... there had been a reason for him to board the ship. He had not come here to see Horus. Not like this -- not like this!

But then Horus is speaking to him and Loken forgets himself entirely.

"Garviel."

His heart skips a beat and then begins to hammer with such fervency, he thinks it might break clear from his chest.

Loken is so light-headed from his own disparate commands -- don't listen to him!, listen to him, don't look him in the eye!, hold on to his every word; and so forth -- that he needs to concentrate to keep himself upright, even when he is on his knees.

"Garviel," the Warmaster says again, and his voice is even richer than Loken remembers and he thinks he would slaughter a whole company and lay a hundred beating hearts down for the sound alone. "Look at me."

This, at least, is an order both warring sides cannot obey. He cannot look at the Warmaster for fear of losing himself; he cannot look at the Warmaster for shame of having deserted him. But as he's busy steadying his breath and clenching his jaw and boring holes into the tiled floor, the Warmaster walks towards him in three languid strides, kneeling before him and taking his chin in one hand. With the same care he had shown after Loken's first encounter with the Warp, as if Loken were some small mortal child and not a battle-hardened Astartes, he lifts Loken's chin until the other is forced to look him in the eye. Horus smiles at the shame, the adulation, the fury, and most striking, the confusion. My lost lamb, his gaze seems to say in return, how good of you to return to your flock.

The vision which keeps Loken from throwing himself into a proper prostration and begging his lord and master to absolve him of his sins is not, on the contrary, the memory of Torgaddon kneeled before Aximand. It is not even that of his compatriot knights. No, it is Mersadie Oliton, the wide-eyed dark-skinned hairless Remembrancer who had born witness to his rise and fall. He thinks of her and of the millions of other innocents -- lesser lives, Abaddon would sneer -- lost in the conflict and he steels himself.

His once-brothers are fast, but Loken is faster. But the Warmaster, especially the one that emerged from Molech, is the closest to godhood and he raises a hand to seize the chainsword by its blade -- a hair away from touching his neck.

"Loken," Abaddon snarls, "You dare!"

But Loken pays the other no heed, concentrating his efforts and fury on the more-than-a-man before him. If hatred alone could kill, Horus would be dead many times over. But as it is, he merely maintains his grip on the weapon.

"Garviel," Aximand warns, "If you don't let go right now -- "

"Shut up," Loken at last snaps, "I'll have words for you later."

"Later," Aximand splutters, "What later!"

"Leave us, Ezekyle, Aximand," Horus says, cutting the standstill to a close.

The impotent disbelief from the two Mournival members is palpable.

"Sir," Abaddon growls out, "We can't just -- "

"Ezekyle," Horus answers, matching his first captain's timbre while keeping his eyes trained on Loken, "Are you defying a direct order?"

What follows is a drop of silence as thunderous as a storm and Abaddon spits, swearing to the lords of Chaos themselves that Loken would be made to pay if the Warmaster were in any sense harmed before stomping out. Aximand lingers long enough to throw a worried glance -- as if to ask: are you _sure?_ \-- before taking his leave as well. Loken, still upright with his sword drawn and held in the grasp of the Warmaster, hears the door shut and it is through sheer willpower that he keeps his knees from folding.

"Honestly," Horus huffs, crushing the chainsword between his fingers before wrenching the functionless weapon out of Loken's grasp and tossing it to the floor. "Between those two I sometimes wonder who is the father and who are the sons!"

And then to add insult to injury, he turns his back on Loken, making his way to the dining arrangement where he pours two glasses of wine before gesturing for Loken to sit.

But Loken remains fixed at his spot near the entrance. It is horribly childish of him to sulk, but there is little else his actions can be called.

"Garviel," Horus sighs, feeling the passage of time more acutely than he had stepping through the gate, "Come here. Much has happened and I should like for you to tell me of your absence."

Loken says nothing.

Horus swirls his cup and takes an experimental sip before glancing at the doorway.

Loken is still there, silent and unmoving. Unwilling to process the most recent chain of events. He looks down to his steady hands and sees the blood of his brothers, of his men, of his Primarch.

For all his newly-vested powers, Horus still cannot read minds. And so it is that the prodigal son's mind remains a murky unknown mess. He must tread carefully, he knows, for the other's betrayal is the result of his heavy-handedness, though Abaddon, ever faithful, would argue otherwise.

He goes about a different approach then: "I have missed you Garviel."

This, at least, harkens some response.

"No you haven't."

It's the reply of a petulant child, but it's a start.

"I have," Horus insists, "And it pleases me to see you again my son, in the face of these times and circumstances. You look well. Though you've made a name for yourself on Terra, amongst my brothers, still, you return to me."

"What is the point of this?" Loken demands. "Why have you asked for me to be brought here?"

"I want you back Garviel," Horus responds, laying the truth out like that. "I want you at my side when I build the Imperium anew."

And that, surprisingly enough, is what sends Loken over the edge. Although his eyes are still trained on the floor so the Warmaster cannot see his face fall, his whole body seems to crumple as his shoulders curve in on themselves and he presses his palms to his face, desperate to hide the shameful flood of tears.

Horus gets to his feet then, walking over and wrapping Loken in a mortifyingly reassuring embrace. It is the sort of hold that would have crushed a mortal's bones but it only serves to make Loken cry harder.

"Don't hate me for what's happened, my son," Horus murmurs, "In time, we will rebuild our lost bonds."

"How -- " Loken gasps, "How can I _not_ hate you? You ordered my death. You sent my brothers to kill me. You -- you had Little Horus kill Torgaddon!"

Horus pulls him closer, squeezing the air from his lungs.

"Is that how you see it?" the Warmaster asks.

Loken takes a shuddering breath, adamant about getting his bearings. "It's the only way I _can_ see it, sir."

Horus lets him go and steps back, dropping to a kneel in a graceful motion and it really is like five years ago for even when kneeling, the Primarch can still look him in the eye. He gently pulls Loken's hands from his face before cupping his chin a second time. With his other hand, he thumbs at the still-wet lines down the ever-youthful face.

"And?" Horus prompts, "Even if it were so, could you hate me?"

Yes, yes, _YES_ , Loken wishes dearly to scream. But at this closeness he can't stop himself from falling.

"No," he says at last, squeezing his eyes shut so that the Warmaster will stop seeing into his soul, "No, I can't."

With his eyes closed tight, Loken can feel Horus moving in to embrace him yet again. His gene-father smells of ash and wine and his touch is a cooling flame, a balm on Loken's ravaged soul. His shoulders heave and he struggles to remember Torgaddon, to remember Mersadie, Euphrati, Petronella -- Qruze, Severian, Rubio, anyone -- in a desperate attempt to feed his will to fight.

"Garviel," the Warmaster breathes, "You have suffered my son, and for that alone, I am sorry. But you have returned and all will be well, in time. Seeing you once more extinguishes the embers of my ire but hear this: you and Torgaddon betrayed my trust in you when you drew your own conclusions and turned against me on Istvan. But I have missed you dearly, Garviel, and I welcome your return. We shall renew our bonds of fellowship at a later time. For now, tell the rest of your squad the change in your plans and have your brothers settle you in."

Horus lets him go and stands up.

Loken draws another quavering breath before dipping his head.

"Yes, Warmaster."

And so he seals his fate.

-

As soon as the Warmaster dismisses them from his chambers, Abaddon storms off, determined to spar, stew, and sulk until his choler came under control. Aximand fears for neither the Warmaster nor Loken -- it would be a cold day in hell before anyone managed to scratch their commander; likewise, the Warmaster had made it clear that he was as determined as Aximand and Abaddon (if not moreso, judging by how calmly he took the irredeemable attack) in dragging the Mournival back to its former days.

While pacing in the corridor right outside the Warmaster's innermost chambers -- while the ever-vigilant Justinaerin guards look more and more perplexed -- Aximand realises that no one has bothered to inform the new members of the Mournival of their plans. Well, he certainly hadn't and he doubts Abaddon had the care nor their Lord the time. And what was there to say? The balance they had struck with Torgaddon and Loken had been sublime, better even than the iteration with Sejanus (most handsome and best beloved he might have been). There had been none of the need to show one another up, much less the constant rubbing of shoulders. No, there had been true camaraderie, the brotherhood which none of the Secret Orders ever managed to reach.

Unfortunately, neither Kibre nor Noctua seem the sort to willingly give up their ranks. Now, if Loken had been in their position and Sejanus had somehow been revived, he would have gracefully bowed out. Which was yet another reason his absence was sorely noted, to say nothing of his irritating-yet-endearing mortal tendencies. With Loken and Torgaddon gone, the roles of both peacemaker and jester had fallen on him. The Warmaster must've noticed the discrepancy as well, but Aximand is truly surprised that _Abaddon_ had agreed (or, if the Warmaster's implication ran true, had helped hatch the plot). The other had no open qualms about being ordered to kill their fellow brothers-in-arms on Istvan III and last Aximand checked, Abaddon was not the least guilt-ridden by the battle-end. It really spoke of how dire the situation was, he supposes, for Abaddon to meddle in social affairs.

After a heady wait that has him poised to knock no less than five times, Horus at last opens the door, ushering a weary but whole Loken out. Aximand takes note of his tear-streaked face as well as the missing chain blade. But seeing as how there are no wounds and the Warmaster is looking nothing but affectionate...

"Ah, Little Horus," the Warmaster greets, "We've just finished talking. You will accompany Garviel to explain the situation to his -- squadmates -- and then find him a spot in the acolytes' chambers."

Aximand feels his stomach drop at the last part of the orders. He darts a glance at Loken, who looks so conflicted and beaten he probably didn't hear it, and nods. What else is there to do? Of course the other would face some sort of punishment for so grievous a betrayal. "Yes sir," he answers, "Consider it done."

"Thank you, my son," the Warmaster says, giving Aximand a rare smile that makes his heart clench. Then the door closes and the guard on the right shoots him a truly perplexed glance but he can only shrug, knowing his face incapable of betraying his internal... well, giddiness. He's wanted this for so long, without hope of achieving it, without daring to voice or dream of it, and yet -- the Warmaster himself had willed it and so it shall be.

He turns to Loken then, Loken, who looks pale and ashen and so very _small_ despite being a couple inches taller than Aximand. His innate curiosity wishes desperately to know what the two of them spoke of, and for such great lengths as well. Did the Warmaster give Loken further justification? Did he make veiled threats? Did he expound on his concept of a truly unified Imperium?

"Garviel," he tries, but nothing follows. It's unspeakably satisfying, to be able to speak the other man's name. He had forbidden himself from saying it since Istvan, an unspoken rule amongst their ranks. But here the other was, returned and in one piece and soon, he would be made a brother amongst them once more.

"What," Loken answers, brittle and hollow.

"Do you know the way to the cargo bay? Would your... would the other members from your squad be there?"

Loken looks at him blankly for a couple moments, as if unable to place him, before he nods and toys with the communications set on his suit. Aximand keeps from frowning at the Mk III set. There was nothing inherently wrong with it of course, but it seemed so strange, to see the other wearing something outside of Legion XVI insignia. Well, Aximand consoles himself, small steps.

"Alright," Loken says at last, "A rendezvous point at the cargo bay has been set."

"Let's go then." He pauses. "Have you thought of what to tell them?"

"No."

"Oh."

The journey to the lower decks is made in the complete absence of conversation, a false silence so thick Aximand has difficulty breathing by the end of it. It's been _years_ and he's missed his brother so so so much, almost as much as he's missed Torgaddon, and yet Loken has changed in small but registered manners and even though it's the same man -- it's not.

As Loken said, the other members of the failed infiltration team are awaiting them. They bristle at the sight of him and speak in hushed tones, as if he weren't capable of hearing them clear across the bay, but Aximand is too busy stewing over the second set of instructions to pay more than cursory attention to the mumblings of conspirators.

The acolytes' chambers.

He remembers them, of course. There wasn't an Astartes on board the Vengeful Spirit who didn't pass through them. The issue was that they were a non-combatant class, filled with still-maturing or otherwise defective warriors. For a seasoned veteran like Loken to be sent there, even as a show of punishment, seemed like cruelty bordering humiliation. Between the harsh schedule where every minute of every hour was planned out and the eight-person rooms where privacy was a distant luxury... Aximand shudders to think of it. More than that, however, it's not good enough (put flatly, no good whatsoever) to have Loken back without Torgaddon, and the ultimate goal is to have them both, eventually, on the Mournival. In that respect, he still has a ways to go.

Right as he's making peace with his own sky-high expectations, the beginnings of a brawl erupts between the stowaways.

"You goddamn traitor!" someone spits.

"I figured you would be the one to sell us out."

"Loken," the one member Aximand recognizes begs, "Loken tell us it's not true. Tell us that you've got some kind of plan, that this is a false front -- something."

And Loken? Loken takes the punch to the face, spitting out blood without bothering to touch his cheek, and when he turns his head at last, it's the same blank expression he had fixed upon Aximand, as if he failed to recognize the people before him.

"This is ridiculous," someone else snarls, drawing their own bolter, "I was told to off him if he betrayed us but I didn't think it would be like this -- "

Aximand is moving without being fully aware, unsheathing his own blade before shoving Loken out of the way.

"Throne!" the would-be executioner curses when the barrel of his gun is sliced through, "You really are a traitor, aren't you!"

Aximand hardens his features into a scowl that would make Abaddon proud. "The Warmaster shows enough mercy by letting your party go free," he sneers, "It's clear enough which side my brother has chosen and I'll not have you demeaning his decision."

One of the other stowaways actually pulls out his sword and Aximand thinks: good. There's less than a dozen of them and everyone but Qruze would be a walk in the park. Thankfully, old Half-Heard is as much of a pacifist as Aximand remembers. He holds up his hand, having taken on the mantle of leadership in Loken's departure, and says, clearly enough:

"We've said enough and will take our leave now."

And with that, the group shuffles into a waiting ship, piloted by a mortal female no less, though not before a couple members hurl a handful of additional, colourful insults in Loken's direction.

Aximand chances a glance at Loken when they've all left. He doesn't know what he expected, but the other shows nothing. It's as if he hasn't registered that the party he came with had left. Aximand files this observation to the back of his mind, overriding it with a simple 'good riddance'.

"Garviel?" he says at last, "Garvi, they've gone now."

Loken blinks and looks at him, as if seeing him anew.

"Who?"

Aximand shrugs, "Qruze and so-such. I don't know the rest."

"Oh." And again, Loken seems out of sorts, as if not in his own skin. "Alright."

"Garviel," Aximand tries, "You must be tired. I know the Warmaster said to put you in the acolytes' chambers tonight but... why not bunk with me for one night? For old times' sake?"

Loken's eyes widen and he looks at a spot behind Aximand's shoulder and for the first time, Aximand wonders if things like nightmares and ghosts plagued the other as well.

"No," Loken mutely says, shaking his head, "I can't. Lupercal... the Warmaster... he said..."

"Alright," Aximand nods, pushing down the sting of rejection, "Let me take you to the acolytic chambers then."


	4. THREE: Can't say no to a ghost

[THREE]

 

Can't say no to a ghost  
Mission report  
Accorded privileges

-

Abaddon counts one hour and fifty-three minutes, give or take the time it took him to stomp to the training quarters, after exiting the Warmaster's chambers before Aximand seeks him out. After he's pounded one training dummy into smithereens, he feels a sliver of pity for Aximand. Poor Little Horus, he thinks, as his own choler wanes, to have to deal with so many roles. Before it would have been Torgaddon sent to make peace between the Warmaster and him, just as it would have been Loken to drop a bit of nuance into their strategies.

What had Horus referred to it as?

Ah, yes, being "a master of broken monsters".

Abaddon flexes his own grip experimentally, holding back so as not to break the second dummy. He didn't feel broken, not really, but he had been out of sorts since Istvan. Since before Istvan, if he'll be honest.

Upon hearing the approach of familiar footsteps, he opens the training cage bolts and grabs a towel, draping it over his head right as Aximand walks in.

The other looks as quietly furious (or perhaps immaculately victorious) as ever. Were he Aximand, he would have hung the doctors who had done the reattachment. But then, he could never wear his scars so openly.

"Well?" Abaddon asks, grabbing a second towel to dry himself off. "How goes it?"

"Both dead, what did you expect?" Aximand reports, shrugging his shoulders. Even at the obvious jest, played poorly by his half-hearted delivery, Abaddon's chest instinctively tightens at the thought of losing the Warmaster.

"Leave the jokes to one who can deliver them," he says again. Were it anyone else, he would have killed them for daring to speak such heresy.

"You should've seen your face, Ezekyle," Aximand sniggers, reaching over to perfunctorily examine his brother's discarded armor. "At this rate you'll be completely off-guard when we have Tarik back."

"He's back then?" Abaddon demands, "Lupercal convinced him?"

"In a sense..."

"What do you mean?"

"The Warmaster had me take him to the acolytes' rooms."

That, at least, is enough to halt the stream of conflicting opinions battling away in Abaddon's conscience -- one side thrilled at the chance to fight on the same side as Loken, the other dead-set to take his head for having challenged and threatened their gene-father.

"...He what?"

"The acolytes' rooms."

"Stop joking."

"I'm not!" Aximand stops his inspection to drag a hand across his face, shoulders shaking with mirth, "It's definitely him, Ezekyle, and yet he's changed. There's something wrong with him and when I asked him to stay the night with me, he looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"The _acolytes_ ' rooms?" Abaddon repeats, still unable to process the slight afforded to his brother. Well, once-brother. "The Warmaster is better off publically executing him, what on earth is he thinking, sending him there?"

"He did hold a blade to his throat," Aximand cautions, and he sounds dazed, incredulous he was taking what was meant to be Abaddon's side in their debate.

"Which is why we should kill him and be done with it! Not have him rot away there! Throne," Abaddon snarls, "And what say the acolytes?"

"Nothing," Aximand shrugs, "By the time I led him there, they had already started their stasis-sleep."

Abaddon seems bursting with unrestrained energy and he paces through the room like a tiger. "And?" he demands after three circuits left and right, before occupying himself with the task of resuiting. "What are we to do now?"

"We wait for the Warmaster's orders," Aximand says, and it has always been as simple as that for him. Abaddon's brows furrow further and his nostrils flare, but he holds his tongue at least, finishing his rearmament before stomping off to his own quarters.

-

How many years had it been since he had slept in the acolytes' chambers? Decades, perhaps even a century. Throne, had it really been so long? Loken looks over at the developing Astartes, almost crystalline in their sleeping coffins, and can hardly imagine being anything other than his current form.

Contrary to what Abaddon and Aximand believed, he was not much bothered by the re-assignment come demotion. The words of his comrades pained him more than any menial displacement and he feared deep down that their insults held water. He couldn't have been that much of a traitor, he argues, for he had championed their right to return to Terra, hadn't he? Of course the Warmaster could go back on that and send another ship to intercept them on the way back, but... if Loken is honest, the Warmaster seemed utterly indifferent to the plots of his fellow knights.

He closes his eyes and lets the sleeping gases dull his senses, crossing his arms against his chest before sliding into oblivion.

Unsurprisingly, he dreams of his first friend in the Mournival and his raison d'être to return to the Vengeful Spirit.

Tarik Torgaddon is as Loken remembers him on the moon, as he remembers him in the water garden on the imposter-Terra. But when he turns at his name, there is none of the characteristic humour in his eyes and his lips are pressed in a thin line.

Loken stops in his tracks; the urge to recoil as if struck is immense.

He sinks to his knees at the silent reproach in his fellow warrior's eyes.

"Tarik," he mutters, clenching his fists about the barren earth, "Tarik, Throne, I'm sorry."

"Yes," Torgaddon answers, dropping like the Warmaster to meet him eye-to-eye, "It seems that you're awful sorry nowadays Loken. Whatever for?"

"I failed to avenge you."

"Is that what you think this is about? Do you think I want you to kill Little Horus?"

"What else is there for me to do?"

"Garviel Loken," Torgaddon admonishes, "Look at you now! Is this the man whose name I put forth to the Mournival? You're a shell of your former self!"

"There's a new Mournival now," Loken says, unable to express why its existence bothered him so. Thankfully Tarik -- or the figment of his imagination which manisfested itself as the spitting image of his friend -- can get right to the meat of things.

"Yes and it's in a sorrier state than you! Little Horus I'll understand, the Warmaster too if hard-pressed, but Ezekyle? Vouching for you out of anything resembling sentimentality? Come to your senses, oh Sir straight and narrow."

"Why must you persist in this?" Loken demands, changing the topic, "Why must you haunt me so? I never used to dream. Not even after Istvan."

"There aren't many hobbies in the afterlife," Torgaddon quips, "And I have so missed your pretty face." He laughs at Loken's characteristic disgruntlement and touches the other's shoulder, "Peace, my friend. But know that your promise to the Luna Wolves, to the Mournival, and indeed, to our Warmaster is not yet fulfilled."

"I owe nothing to the Warmaster," Loken insists, "He's the man who ordered your death."

"And yet he has spared your life. Garvi, use your head. It's the reason I nominated you and, I suspect, the reason you were taken back. Something is wrong within the high court. Something is wrong on this ship."

"And? You want me to right it?"

"I want you to get to the bottom of it, at the least. You'll get to work tomorrow, you were never one for resisting temptation, I know."

"Don't think you know me so well, Tarik."

"We've changed, yes," Torgaddon admits. Then he stands up and miraculously manages to pull Loken up with him, "But we're not so different from before."

Loken sees his friend in his easy languid mirth and fills the swell of sorrow threaten to overtake him once more. And as the dream begins to blot itself out at the edges, Torgaddon takes his hand and looks at him very seriously and just from that, Loken knows his parting words will be foolish.

And they are.

"Oh, and one more thing," Tarik adds, "If you meet me, please kill me. I've nothing against Gerradon, but his body is such a downgrade. I'd rather be reborn as a greenskin!"

Loken wakes feeling oddly light-headed. Worse yet, he's got an odd quirk to his lips. The beginnings of a smile, one might say.

"Always with the ridiculous requests..." he mutters, opening the pod door and coming face-to-face with Abaddon.

"About time," the first captain grunts.

-

Abaddon's unexpected presence is discombobulating to say the least. Loken blinks, as if expecting the first captain to be yet another spectre, but the image remains. At last he takes a deep breath and steps out of the stasis chamber, padding over to the pre-sorted garments. Acolytes' robes. The shift of cotton is an oddly familiar weight; though no one can look upon acolytehood with fond memories, his months spent in the service of a fully-matured Astartes were not, in retrospect, particularly loathsome.

He has no idea what the Warmaster has planned for him -- if he has anything planned at all. On one hand, Loken would be offended to not be accounted for. On the other hand, the Warmaster was in charge of a million-man rebellion and he had been demoted to acolyte. But he slips on the robes and sure enough muscle memory remembers where to go.

Loken manages three steps out the doorway before Abaddon grabs him by the collar.

"What are you doing?" the other demands.

"Beginning my duties for the day."

"You've already been assigned."

"I wasn't informed."

"Which is why I'm here."

It's a comical situation, which is the only explanation for Abaddon's smirk. Whether it's a reaction to Loken's very-much-apparent shock, disbelief, and horror is anyone's guess.

"They assigned me to _you_?" Loken reiterates, and the words sound even stupider voiced aloud than they did in his head, "Really? But -- why?"

Abaddon shrugs, sidestepping him and taking the lead, and his non-answer makes Loken narrow his eyes.

"You asked for this."

"Maybe."

Loken keeps in step and slowly exhales through his nose. Torgaddon had said there was something wrong in the high court and something foul stewing aboard the ship itself, but he highly doubts the other meant Abaddon's disgusting slide into sentimentality. There were no two ways about it; the role of the acolyte was to assist Adeptus Astartes in all things outside of direct combat. They were most often assigned to the recently-matured Astartes who needed an extra hand or two to get their own equipment (and general bearings) in check.

To his knowledge, no one in the Mournival had ever needed -- or subsequently had -- an acolyte-Adeptus, though they had all gone through the stage themselves. Prodigies did not need help after all.

And so Loken is certain: there is nothing he -- or any other acolyte -- would be able to help Ezekyle Abaddon with that Ezekyle Abaddon himself couldn't do, likely defter and faster than inexperienced acolyte hands. And indeed, the role Abaddon has arbitrarily nicked him into seems more of a portfolio'd secretary than a second pair of hands. Abaddon spars straight into the afternoon, only exiting the practice cage after having beaten every available simulation. He needs no help polishing his gear and is fully capable (but of course) of drying himself off and suiting himself up. Loken swears he will go mad from sheer boredom when he's made to the follow the other into a meeting on theoretical speartips to be led on the other campaigns.

About the only aspect of the abrupt reassignment he can appreciate is the ability to trace the First Captain's footsteps through the Vengeful Spirit. His own path, back when he was Tenth Captain and then fourth member of the Mournival, kept him notably out of the limelight though whether this was distaste at the possibility of being pestered or a general dislike of company it was impossible to say. Abaddon has no such reservations and strolls through the halls of the magnificent vessel -- even more splendidly furnished than five years prior -- as if he owns it. And, in a sense, Loken concedes, the other probably does.

-

Though the remaining Knights Errant are even further from Terra than the Vengeful Spirit, the nearest Imperium base is a mere two days' transit. Qruze has taken the mantle of leadership up in Loken's absence though there hasn't been much chance for conversation.

Every once in a while the silence will be broken by someone -- most often Severian -- cursing Loken. And then Qruze will give a tired sigh and feel the age in his immortal bones and say that Loken must have his reasons. Though the other's mental state was... delicate, to put it nicely, he was still the same straight and narrow tenth captain that Qruze remembered. A man of character who would not betray the Wolf, their squad, and the Emperor (beloved by all) without good reason.

So he tells himself.

As soon as they're off the ship, he asks for a connection to be made to Leman Russ. The Primarch is understandably busy and Qruze is made to wait upwards of three hours before Russ' towering bulk appears on the holoscreen. Curt greetings are exchanged and Russ averts his eyes for a moment, no doubt thinking they had accomplished their mission at the cost of their leader's life, and what Qruze says after nearly makes him tumble off his seat in shock.

"He _what_?!" Russ demands, and Qruze isn't sure whether it's Loken or Horus the Primarch is referring to. "Are you sure about this?"

"I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, sir."

"From my brother too?"

"Ah. No. I didn't encounter him."

"All the better," Russ shakes his head, "So... just to recapitulate: you managed to get the trackers on the ship, but you were found and Loken was taken away and when he returned, he said he would be defecting?"

"Not in those exact words, sir."

"What did he say then?"

"That he needed to stay aboard the ship. That there was something he needed to do."

Russ gives an aggravated groan, cursing the Emperor's advisor for nominating Loken in the first place. "But -- then -- Horus knew that you had boarded."

"Loken seemed to imply so, yes."

"And he... just let you leave?"

"We had no contact with him. Aximand -- one of the Mournival -- escorted Loken to meet with us and he intervened on Loken's behalf when Severian and Byorn drew their swords, but he did not give anything by way of explanation."

"Tell me, Iacton," Russ sighs, rubbing at his temples, "Does any of this make any sense to you?"

"Not in the slightest, sir." He refrains from mentioning that he still considered Horus' betrayal outside of the realm of explanation. He had _served_ as a Luna Wolf, often times working directly under the Warmaster, back when he had merely been the leader of the sixteenth legion, and could not dream of a day where the other's devotion to the Emperor would be called into question.

"Of course the bureaucrats here would like to shrug it off to the forces of Chaos, but I had been reassured by Malcador and Dorn that Captain Loken was neigh-incorruptible..." he jerks a thumb at the screen to the back of him, "More disconcerting still is that the tracking devices your crew set on the ship seem to be functioning normally -- which means my brother _wants_ to be pre-empted."

"Where does the vessel seem to be headed?"

"Here," Russ clenches his jaw, stern countenance made all the more grim. "Terra."

"What orders have you for us?"

"None at the moment," Russ admits, "Your group must be exhausted. Good job on accomplishing your objective despite the loss of your captain. You ought to get some rest and let us know if the situation changes. We'll need all the eyes and ears we can get for something like this..." he mutters something about Horus never doing anything with half a heart before terminating the connection.

-

"Ezekyle," Horus greets with amusement openly twinkling in his eyes, "I see you've pulled rank to have Garviel assigned to you."

"Does it displease you, father?"

"Not in the slightest." He chuckles, "But is it because you wish to keep an eye on him, or because you desire his company, I wonder."

Abaddon holds his tongue.

"Let me ask you the same question then: are you displeased with my actions, my son?"

Abaddon hesitates, no doubt fighting his knee-jerk instinct to unflinchingly obey. "I don't understand them," he says at last, "To have someone of Loken's calibre wasting away amongst the acolytes."

"What would you hand down as punishment instead?" Horus prompts, still amused.

"A public swearing of fealty followed by denounciation of the Emperor," Abaddon answers, no, recites. He thinks this over and then tacks on: "And a hundred strokes on the back."

"But you would give him his former laurels back, just like that?" Horus chuckles, reaching out to brush the back of his fingers against Abaddon's cheek. "There is some childishness in you yet, my son," he murmurs, ever the indolent father.

The first captain is really learning to keep his peace, as seen in how he swallows his own argument, neither leaning into nor away from the touch.

"I desire the same, of course," Horus divulges, "But it cannot be done quickly. Garviel Loken must face his own daemons, spectres which plague his mind and his mind alone. Rather than being twisted by the Warp, he seems to have lost himself midway." Horus shakes his head before draining the wine glass, "You may keep him as your acolyte Ezekyle, but do bring him along to a Mournival meeting when you've the chance. I'd like your brother to see how the confraternity has changed in his absence."

"I'll see to it, Warmaster," Abaddon answers with a dip of his head.


	5. FOUR: The fifth wheel

[FOUR]

 

The fifth wheel  
Bring him back and then we'll talk  
Minefields of grief

-

The return of Tybalt Marr provides the Mournival with grounds to hold a meeting. In the week since Loken's return aboard the Vengeful Spirit, he's slipped into his role as an acolyte (albeit Abaddon's acolyte) without difficulty. His tasks are menial and though the bitterness still threatens to knock him off-course, Abaddon -- or perhaps Horus? -- has seen to it that his options are limited. Torgaddon has tasked him with getting to the bottom of... whatever it was that was plaguing the Warmaster's ship, Loken is beginning to fear the other is truly no more than a hallucination. Everything and everyone seems to be in working order; he is a madman amongst the sane.

In the interim, he's lapsed into a silence that sets even Abaddon on-edge. It's the natural order of things: an acolyte is meant to be seen, not heard, after all, and Loken surprises himself, with how quickly he takes to his new role.

"There'll be no training in the midday today," Abaddon tells him while they're taking inventory of the Justaerin armoury. "The Mournival is meeting. You're to follow me."

The thought of seeing what his beloved confraternity had become makes him sick to his stomach.

"I'm not sure that's wise," Loken puts forth.

"Warmaster's orders," Abaddon grunts and that's the end of that.

The first half of the day drags its heels and Loken feels a dread identical to the one when he and Torgaddon had walked down the parliament building, when Aximand and Abaddon had brought him to the Warmaster. Torgaddon's shade continues to lurk out of the corner of his vision, silent for the most part outside of his dreams, and Loken steels his nerves for the meeting.

His presence makes the already-heavy atmosphere neigh-unbearable. Aximand raises both eyebrows when he silently trails in behind Abaddon while Kibre doesn't deign him worth a glance. Admittedly, Loken has had some contact with both members throughout the week. The final member of the Mournival however, is someone he altogether does not recognize. Grael Noctua looks at him with unabashed dislike. The other man is clever, Loken will give him that, but he has no head for more delicate matters.

"Tybalt Marr has returned with Meduson's head," Aximand begins.

"If the threat could be neutralized with Marr and a couple ships, then it was never a threat at all," Kibre scoffs.

"And yet Meduson nearly killed the Warmaster and two of his brothers," Aximand retorts.

"What are you asking for of him then?" Abaddon demands, leaping into the fray as well, "A thank-you card? A trophy?"

"We ought to recognize his efforts -- "

"Insubordination?" Kibre sneers, "That's some effort there."

Aximand's new face will not betray his emotions, but Loken knows him well enough to see the discomfort in his eyes. He knows, because he feels the same. Even though the deliberations make sense and the arguments are all sound, something about this new Mournival is off. Horribly, horribly wrong. It doesn't feel like a brotherhood so much as a meeting of rivals; the words are sharp and tense and there is no banter to ease the slice of the knife. The back-and-forth continues for a while as Abaddon and Kibre take one another's side against Aximand. And through it all, the fourth man, the one who wasn't even a senior member of the Legion, does not say a word.

Loken surprises himself again, with the inexplicable urge to leap to Aximand's defense. Yes, Tybalt Marr had taken ahold of several ships without the Warmaster's explicit permission, but it had been in order to counter a foe whose resources were evidently expansive enough to catch three Primarchs off-guard. Marr deserved to be honoured for his slaying of a threat, rather than rubbed in the dirt. He catches himself however, remembering that Aximand was no longer his brother, but rather the murderer of Torgaddon. Remembering that he had no loyalties with the Warmaster and should not be horrified at the thought of another scrape with death. Remembering that he was even more of a traitor in the eyes of his old legion than Tybalt Marr and yet here he was, tagging along with the first captain to the most exclusive of councils as if he had never left.

At last, Noctua speaks.

"What is an acolyte doing amongst us?" he asks, his voice dripping of contempt.

Aximand swallows while Kibre looks to Abaddon.

"It is the duty of an acolyte to follow," Abaddon answers.

"Bullshit," Noctua sneers, "You have no need for an acolyte, Ezekyle."

Abaddon's eyes flash dangerously and he looks fit to kill. Kibre too, who will back his direct superior in any instance; it's one of the reasons Abaddon nominated him.

"Is that a challenge, petty officer?"

"You don't see me pebbling our meeting room with subordinates, do you?"

"That's because you don't have any," Kibre snorts.

Noctua, nearly two heads shorter than Abaddon, looks quite bellicose in his own right. He turns to Aximand for support. Aximand, who places a hand on the other's shoulder and heaves a sigh. "It is a curious thing," he admits, "For none of us have ever taken on an acolyte before. But as there is no precedent, I cannot say whether it is forbidden or allowed. You are welcome, of course, to find an acolyte of your own, Grael."

More than hatred, the look that Noctua shoots Loken is one of envy, pure and simple. Neither Noctua nor Kibre are fools; they know that Loken's continued presence jeopardizes their own places in the Mournival. But whereas Kibre will bow out so long as Abaddon tells him to, Noctua clings to his sudden windfall in rank with the desperation of a drowning man.

His ambition is admirable; a pity Loken hates him regardless.

"Returning to the subject of Tybalt Marr..." Aximand tries, clearing his throat, "I would at least bring his deeds to the Warmaster's attention."

"But in doing so, you're implying that he's done something worth commending," Noctua protests.

"Hasn't he?"

"That's acceptable," Abaddon grunts, and though there is some more deliberation, it seems to be the end of it. Loken keeps himself from frowning; this new Mournival favoured Abaddon to an obscene degree. Which begged the question: why would Abaddon wish to change it?

-

Loken is not the only one who can see the ghost of Tarik Torgaddon. In fact, he's not even the first.

Torgaddon had always been everyone's favorite, to a degree. Light-hearted and quick-witted, who somehow managed to beat _Abaddon_ for the title of 'tallest', Aximand recalls how it was Torgaddon and not himself who Horus had sent to go after Abaddon whenever he was struck with a bout of choler and too out of sorts to contemplate peace.

But the camaraderie which they had shared -- which made him beg for Torgaddon to turn back from his path, to come back to the Warmaster and leave Loken to his devices -- steepens considerably when Torgaddon's blood is on his hands. Horus Aximand has murdered enough people to populate a small world and still, Targaddon's death remains at the forefront.

Another little-known secret is that Ger Geraddon is not the first body Torgaddon's soul has returned to. It's not even the second or the third.

"Little Horus," Torgaddon whines, shamelessly wheedling away at the other's ear, "How long are you going to sit there and sulk?"

"I want to throw up," Aximand admits.

"Mm," Torgaddon makes a sympathetic noise, "That was a pretty bad meeting, even with the new standards."

"It's because you and Loken aren't here."

"Oh, tell me, who is this angel and what has he done with my brat of a little brother!," Tarik teases. "Now come on, enough moping. Yes, that's it! One leg over and then the other. Oh, if only Garvi were so easy to convince."

"What's wrong with him in the first place?" Aximand asks, determined not to dwell on the idea of ghosts.

"Isolation, I suspect. He thinks he's going mad, which only makes the madness worse."

"I doubt I'm much better," Aximand mutters.

"You'd be surprised," Torgaddon laughs, reaching out and tugging on Aximand's sideknot. "Now get out there and show me how sorry you are for killing me."

"By killing you again," Aximand deadpans.

"That's the spirit! What a quick learner you are, Little Horus."

"Shut up," Aximand rolls his eyes, rustling about his personal effects for a silencer. There was little sense in waking up half the ship from bolter fire after all. "I still can't believe Ezekyle took Garvi as an acolyte. I mean, it's Ezekyle!"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to vomit too, after a meeting like that," Torgaddon shrugs.

"Why? Everything went his way, just the way it always is," Aximand doesn't bother keeping the sourness from his voice. He constantly feels at breaking point and Torgaddon's requests for murder (well, technically suicide, he supposes) are no help, though his company is much-missed.

"You don't mean that Horus. Do you really think Ezekyle is as easy as that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would he meet with anyone other than Kibre and Ekaddon if he just wanted to be agreed with?"

Aximand mulls over this for a bit before making his way past the crew quarters and into the near-frozen rear deck that housed the Luperci. The half-dead half-daemon spectres look at him with disinterested glowing white eyes.

"Can they see you?" he asks Torgaddon, suddenly curious.

"I've no idea." Torgaddon scans the pack before pointing at a Luperci in the back, "Ah, that's the one!" Aximand has no idea how the other differentiates but he makes his way to the Luperci who was taking the body of Ger Geraddon and removes his head from his shoulders in one clean sweep. His hands and breath are steady throughout the act and Tarik gives a chuckle, tugging on his sidelock in lieu of saying good-bye.

The Luperci treat the murder amongst their ranks with the same marked disinterest as they treated everything that was not a command to ravage and kill. Aximand lifts the corpse onto his back. It looks nothing like Torgaddon; looks nothing like Gerradon even, but he will not have his brother eaten by Luperci.

-

It is in the crematorium of the funerary wing that Loken stumbles into Aximand. His once-brother is kneeled over a well-rotted corpse and though there is nothing recognizable about the flesh, Loken immediately knows who it is. Who it had been.

Aximand turns at the sound of his footsteps and Loken sees the other had been weeping.

But even when expressing sorrow, the contours of his face refuse to comply and he looks more bitterly determined than ever. Were it not for his eyes, ice-blue rather than Loken's own rainy shade, Loken might have thought the other wished for this. For any of it.

As he is still dressed in acolytes' robes and Aximand is in his power suit, the difference in heights is more than a head in the opposite direction. Still, he reaches up to touch the side of Aximand's face.

"It suits you," he says at last, pulling his hand away.

Aximand blinks, surprised, before reaching up to scratch at the never-quite-healed scar.

"Flattery doesn't become you."

"No," Loken agrees, "But I mean it." His gaze hardens then and he sets his jaw. "Who was reponsible? Does he still live?"

Aximand stiffens, searching his face for some clue.

"What's it to you?"

"If you haven't killed him, I will." The words slip thoughtlessly out of his mouth and he realizes, with horror bordering on madness, that he had truly meant them. Aximand's expression cracks for a second before he moves to embrace Loken.

"Garvi," he mumbles, "Garviel, I didn't mean it. I didn't want to kill him. I'll find a way to revive him -- in his proper body -- I promise." He pulls away and looks at Loken, pleading, and Little Horus is not significantly younger but he manages to look like their wizened gene-father and somehow much younger at the same time. "You don't hate me, do you?"

Loken averts his gaze. He had meant those words, but Torgaddon's death was still on the other's hands.

"Revive him first," he says in a voice too quiet to be his own, "Revive him, and then... we'll see."

-

Aximand thinks himself more affected by the emptiness of the Warp than usual, ghosting through the lower decks for what feels like days after their encounter. His heart is racing from Loken's _If you haven't killed him then I will_ , proof enough of some not-yet-lost friendship between the two of them. His brother missed Torgaddon dearly, but then, didn't they all?

He half-wishes he hadn't killed the other a fourth (or fourteenth) time, if only so he would have someone to talk to. As it is, he twists and turns through the hallways, bumping into the occasional acolyte or slave.

In the face of the near-one hundred years since his acceptance of Horus' gene-seed and his metamorphosis into Astartes, his Cthonian roots are still buried at his core. The same must be true of his brothers-in-arms. Most of them, at least. Though he was wary of embracing so many of the old traditions, he still welcomed the fraternity of the lodges, the waxed oaths of moment, the giddiness of a full moon, and the thrill of the hunt, of battle. Despite this, and despite facts to the contrary, he is still -- uneasy. Yes, there was no other word to soften the blow. Uneasy. The dead should not be roused; it was as much sentiment as it was warning. And here they were, waking the dead time and again.

Did Torgaddon even wish to live again? Even as a spectre he seemed so good-natured, yet Aximand dared not ask.

And then again, it wasn't as if Torgaddon acknowledged his own murder, except in light-hearted jest.

His faithless feet take him to the site of the old warriors' lodge, long since renovated to suit other means. Though the floors and walls have been scrubbed clean, Aximand thinks he can still smell the stench of his brothers' lives. This is, after all, where Maloghurst and Targost had first experimented with waking the dead.

As he circles the sacrificial area, the clink of glass against concrete in the background alerts him to the presence of someone, someone in the shadows.

"Horus. Hadn't expected to see you here."

"Tybalt," Aximand steps forward to meet the other halfway, grasping at his wrist in greeting, "Throne, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be debriefing?"

"Debriefing is finished," Tybalt returns his grip before setting his wine glass on a nearby counter, "You're looking at the new captain of the third company."

"That's -- that's fantastic. Congratulations."

"Is it?" Tybalt's lips quirk, "It hasn't sunk into me, I suppose. I figured I would be in the shadows forever."

Aximand ducks around to the other side of the counter, reaching over to pluck up the wine glass, sniffing experimentally at the remaining spirit. "Golan?" he asks.

"Close. Davinian."

"Ah."

It had been more than seven years since Moy's death. Aximand had been there. Loken and Torgaddon had managed to displease the Warmaster, being sent to guard the rear while he and Abaddon were given the center. Moy and Erebus were tasked at the Warmaster's side and it had been Moy who first confronted the warped remnants of Eugan Temba. Everything had gone wrong long before Davin and yet he still blames it as the singular turning point. A madness had taken hold of the Warmaster and he had desired nothing else but the restoration of his honor. How else could Aximand explain his and Abaddon's relegation to center, when they would have been much better suited than Moy at the speartip?

Seven years, and Marr does not look much changed. The grief is still sharp in his eyes, wrapped around his bones. Is this the same way for him, Aximand wonders.

Five years. It's been five years and still, Isstvan is moments away.

("We never talked much," Marr tells him at a later time, "There was never the need for it." Aximand doesn't understand that; doesn't understand having a second shadow, a second self. But he does understand the need for silence and nods at that.)

At the present, Marr reaches across the counter, grasping at him, and bows his whole front forward with a low cresting cry. The space between them seems like miles, for all the same choked grief they feel, and Aximand can do nothing for his brother.

"Would that I could, I would have surely taken something from him -- " Marr whispers, " -- had there been anything left to save!"


	6. FIVE: Clean-up duty

[FIVE]

 

Clean-up duty  
He's getting soft around the edges  
Don't wake me up

-

After the near-farcical meeting with the new configuration of the Mournival, Abaddon seems to at last run out of menial tasks for him to do. Loken is much relieved, if he'll be honest. As humiliating as it was following Abaddon around like a child, even his own pride had shriveled up at the sight of his former brotherhood. It's not his fault entirely, but this maladjusted parody is from the missing half, no doubt.

Things being what they are, Abaddon leaves him behind two days after and Loken busies himself with the usual acolytic tasks.

He doesn't know whether it's from being selected by the first captain or his own sordid history, but for one reason or another, the other acolytes take care to steer clear of him. Or, alright, a voice suspiciously similar to Tarik's suggests, it might just be because he's fully formed and therefore nearly two heads taller than the others, to say nothing of his age.

Either way, he's left alone regardless of whichever duties he takes it upon himself to do. In this case, he figures he might as well take stock of the armory and maybe do some repairs and cleaning. Though it had never interested him while he'd been a commanding officer aboard the ship, after his time spent with inferior supplies (and no backup so to speak) he's developed a newfound appreciation for tools and inventory.

He's fifteen bolters in and picking up a pace for the work when the door to the armoury opens, heavy footsteps the sign of another Astartes.

Loken looks up, surprised and then not at all to see his replacement on the Mournival. Grael Noctua is a smaller man than he had thought, Loken concedes, for there is no sign of surprise on his true son features. Meaning that he had sought Loken out.

The funny thing is, even with Noctua's power suit and his own acolyte robes, Loken can't imagine losing to a file officer. So though he stands at attention and salutes, addressing him with the obligatory 'sir', he considers it out of courtesy rather than fear. Noctua, for his part, gives a curt nod -- more than Loken himself had ever given to any passing acolyte -- before heaving his sidearm, bolter, and plough-ax onto the table before Loken.

Loken, who sits himself back down and begins taking apart the sixteenth bolter. It doesn't belong to Noctua.

"Acolyte," Noctua speaks, "Is that a refusal to clean my weapons?"

"By no means," Loken silkily replies. "But I've already started on the bolter guns and separate cleaning instruments are required for your accessories."

Noctua looks like how Kibre or Abaddon must look when he addresses them in the Mournival. He's thrown so far from center he doesn't know what particular part of Loken's answer to find fault with. So instead he narrows his eyes and gives a curt 'very well' before stepping back and circling the rest of the armory.

The other man is patient, Loken will give him that. And, if he wants to look at it as such, perhaps this show of rank is even his way of levelling the playing field, handing his weapons off to Loken and all. He finishes all twenty-five bolters he had sought to do -- certain Abaddon would have grabbed him by the collar at sixteen and even Aximand would have stomped out with a threat to return later -- and still, Noctua remains, his boots an echoing thud-thud-thud as he steps here and there on the thinly-carpetted floor.

He puts the bolters back in their usual places before taking out the grinders, shearers, shavers, and rust-deterrent oils, all necessary for the polishing of blades.

"I'll be starting on the ax now," he announces, interest admittedly piqued.

Noctua doesn't respond for so long, Loken thinks the other to be ignoring him. He's about to flick the grinder to the base sharpen setting -- having ascertained that the ax was well-used and well-cared-for, testament to how the newest member of the Mournival was not (contrary to what his mannerisms seemed to suggest) far removed from battle -- when the other at last speaks.

"Does it bother you? Being made an acolyte again?"

"Not particularly, no," Loken shrugs, knowing full well the other was turned away from him, "Though I suspect Ezekyle tries."

Hearing the first captain's name without a title causes Noctua to turn, fixing Loken with a sharp gaze. "That'll be _Captain_ Abaddon to you, acolyte."

Loken says nothing, turning on the grinder and running the ax at the appropriate angle. The sound of mechanised whetstone against god-made steel drowns out any diatribe Noctua might have had.

I was made captain before you were changed, he wants to say, as his ears are filled with the scraping and grinding of metal. I earned my place in the Mournival and it is in my spot you are sitting. -- but that would be rising to the bait and really, he has no bad blood with Noctua. The current state of the Mournival is no more his fault than it is Kibre's. They had never been on the Mournival when it was in its ideal configuration. Having known nothing else, perhaps this was what they thought it was meant to be: a four-man menagerie with Abaddon pulling at the reins. The image so amuses him, he nearly grinds the edge of the ax into a concave, stopping himself in the nick of time.

He flicks the grinder off and lifts the ax to the light, turning it this way and that. It really was a beautiful weapon, solidly made with its weight evenly distributed. A worthy edge to be killed by.

At the stop of the machine, Noctua at last comes over, taking the weapon from Loken and performing his own inspection.

"It was Aximand who recommended me for the seat," he begins.

"I'm not surprised." _Tarik, Ezekyle, and the Primarch Dorn recommended me,_ he keeps from saying.

"The Warmaster approved of it."

"He has no reason to dissent."

"Ezekyle and Falkus will come around."

"In time."

Noctua sets his ax back down, giving a perfunctory nod of approval. Then he looks Loken in the eye and says: "I have no intention of giving you your old seat back."

"And I have no intention of being handed anything," Loken replies without missing a beat. Noctua's nostrils flare and when angered, he looks all the more like their gene-sire. Like Horus. The implication is not lost on him.

As legionary and acolyte are staring one another to the death, the door opens. Neither Loken nor Noctua take stock of the intruder, so determined as they are to make the _other_ back down, that Horus Lupercal manages to stride to the table and clasp a hand on each of their shoulders before they're broken from their reverie.

"Garviel, Grael," the Warmaster himself greets, "Taking stock of the armoury during the warp, I see."

Their reactions are instantaneous and identical, so synced it was as if they had practiced beforehand. They both sink to one knee, easily dropping out of the Warmaster's grasp, and their hurried, near-hysterical, "Warmaster, sir," comes as practically an echo.

"Please, my sons," Horus chuckles, "There's no need for such ceremony." He says, as if he made regular strolls around other, communal, armories. "I merely wanted to see what you were up to." He motions for both of them to rise and then gestures at Noctua's ax. "May I?"

"Of course," the two of them stammer. Noctua shoots Loken another glare and though Loken notices, he's too busy trying to get ahold of himself. Horus Lupercal is here, within arm's reach, and he can't breath, can't blink, can't move or think, for how much the proximity of his gene-sire affects him. He watches through eyes that don't seem to be his own as Horus looks at the ax this way and that before complimenting its craftsmanship. He asks who sharpened it and Loken is lost for words. Noctua must point in his direction for Horus is looking at him, wholly at him, and there is amusement and affection in his eyes and only the Warmaster, only his gene-father, would be able to make Loken so irrevocably _weak_. Weak at the knees, sore in the chest, whole body weighed down with the childish desire to please.

And then the air is filled with the whet of the grindstone once more and neither Noctua nor Loken can believe their eyes, for it is the Warmaster himself sharpening the plough-ax another time. His hands are deft; and Loken finds himself thinking: truly, there is nothing the Warmaster does not excel at. Were there enough of him, he could run an entire ship -- no, an entire legion -- alone. He finishes within minutes, holding it up to the light, and then without pause, gets the leathers, furs, and rags from the lower cabinet. The weapon is sharpened and polished in the span of ten minutes and when it is done and over, it looks better than new.

Noctua is understandably reverent when the Warmaster presents him with his restored armament. Over this small show of favour, Loken finds himself seized by the cold hand of envy.

"How feels it?" the Warmaster asks. As if there were any need.

"She's as brilliant as the day she was made, sir," Noctua answers, "Thank you."

"And it goes to show," the Warmaster agrees, "That the success of a legion, and indeed, the success of the Imperium, rests never wholly on the laurels of her warriors." He turns from Noctua to Loken, resting his gaze for a long while. Loken feels as much a child as always and yet, here it is, the look that borders on appraisal. Approaching paternal pride.

"Let it never be said," their lord and master continues with a twinkle in his eye, "That the Sons of Horus could not polish their own blades, eh?" It's as much a joke as it is a mild reproach. He claps his hands on both their shoulders again and adds, "Good work, both of you. At ease."

Lupercal leaves in the same whirlwind he had arrived.

Loken looks upon the plough-ax with unmasked desire and Noctua is so light-headed he can't even take notice. In fact, he stumbles out of the armoury while his bolter and sidearm remain at the table. Loken stares at the forgotten weapons for a long while before collapsing into a crouch, sinking to his haunches and breathing heavily into his steepled fingers.

-

"My," the person who looks nothing like Torgaddon and yet is, for this short period of time, Torgaddon, says, "I feel so popular. Almost loved."

Abaddon grunts, as is his way, helping him down from the mortuary pallet with a gentleness that would have raised their gene-sire's eyebrows.

"As chatty as always, I see," not-quite-Torgaddon continues. "Well, how long has it been? Days? Weeks?"

"Two days."

"Damn. It's getting shorter every time." Torgaddon stretches to his full height -- never quite as tall as he used to be, regardless of however many bodies his soul flitted to -- before glancing over at Abaddon. Whereas neither Aximand nor Loken had sought him out (nor, he suspects, would they have the stomach to face him in his current state), Abaddon has never even balked. Torgaddon would feel more slighted, he supposes, that his fellow Astartes so easily transposed his face and figure onto some dozen identical demons. But it seems that out of the three of them, only Abaddon can sense his physical form.

Abaddon is forever-tense, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Other daemons had weaker grasps on their hosts; more of a borrowing than a taking. Tarik can't even remember making a deal with the devil, but a deal he must have made for how else could his own comings and goings be so smooth? Regardless, Abaddon would take him down -- a second time, if need be -- the second he lost control.

It's oddly comforting.

"Well?" Torgaddon asks after settling (somewhat) into his new limbs. "How are you doing, how's the wife and kids, how many worlds did we burn in the interim?"

They've been brothers-in-arms for centuries and still, Abaddon is more often than not caught off-guard by his humor. The other purses his lips to keep from smiling, as if he had any reputation to uphold between the two of them, and he shakes his head, almost rueful.

"Little Horus will stop at nothing to revive you," he reports, "Though I suspect some of it must be from the Warp."

"Revive me?"

"With your gene-seed."

"The one that... ah, right, you harvested it, didn't you?"

"As dictated by protocol," Abaddon snaps. He almost looks abashed.

"I don't blame him. I would've done the same. Throne, it's a wonder how you managed to make it out of this in one piece. How are Kibre and Ekaddon faring?"

"It was a mistake to nominate Kibre."

"To -- the Mournival."

"Hn." Another grunt. "He doesn't have the head for it."

"Have you told him this?"

"There'd be no point. I don't want a scholar at the head of the Justaerin."

"Our lot are hardly scholars."

Abaddon crosses his arms, looking at his swirling white eyes as if to say: you know what I mean. Torgaddon laughs and that, at least, sounds like what they both remember.

"Alright, I know." A pause. "And Garviel? You're not being too harsh on him, I hope?"

"That was a stupid idea," Abaddon snorts, "He's no good as an acolyte. Never was."

"Still, I'd prefer for him to be your acolyte rather than wandering the halls. Garvi was such a fright, you wouldn't understand."

"Except you told me."

"But you weren't there to see it, Ezekyle."

"It was necessary."

"Just like my death."

A longer pause, a catch of breath, and then: "Yes."

Torgaddon laughs, crossing his arms as well before shaking his head. "Well, at least you admit it. Little Horus and Garvi are loathe to do even that!"

"And what about you?" Abaddon retorts, "Would you concede it too?"

"Would you believe me even if I said I could?"

"No."

"There you go." Torgaddon crouches back down against the pallet, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his palm. "It was either Little Horus or me, that I knew. And I wouldn't be able to kill Little Horus, even if I could. Still..." he takes on a more wistful tone, tempering it somewhat when he sees the roll of Abaddon's eyes, "I like to think there was a better way to resolve things. If you had all just listened to Garvi, for one."

"Then the Warmaster would be dead."

"We don't know that."

"He may be a changed man, but at least he's alive. I know that for certain. Were it not for the lodge, he would have died. I can feel it."

"Alright, alright," Torgaddon sighs, "No point in dwelling on that, in any case." He watches the tendrils of his own flesh, dancing like black fire, before coming up with another question: "If I asked, would you stop Little Horus from reviving me?"

Abaddon frowns.

"No."

At this, Torgaddon laughs properly. "Nearly three centuries of fighting side by side," he chuckles, "And here you are, getting sentimental!"

Abaddon refuses to dignify that with a response.

-

The next meeting between Aximand and Loken takes place in the long hallways of the since-abandoned Lodge quarters during what would have been daybreak, were they not still in the ceaseless darkness of the Warp. Aximand is patrolling the corridors when he stumbles upon Loken, curled in on himself in the corner, wedged between wall and floor.

It would have been impossible for anyone else to equate the pitiful form with the former tenth captain, yet for Aximand the recognition is instantaneous.

"Garviel," he gasps, flicking on the lights before hurrying over. "Garviel, what are you doing here?"

The other Astartes has his eyes squeezed shut. His mouth moves, but nothing recognizable escapes. Aximand pulls the glove off of his left hand and touches Loken's hand. It's cold, far too cold for an Astartes.

Needless to say, the other is in no condition to walk.

Loken's weight against his back is nothing like Abaddon's. Loken is flesh and cotton-spun robes; Abaddon had been steel and metal and blood blood blood. And still, Aximand can think of nothing else but the heavy weight that had rested in his hands.

A blink, and he's managed to take them back to his own quarters. Loken is not hurt in any physical sense. But the cold sweat and the staunchly-closed eyes, as if refusing to see the world at large... Aximand drowns him in a tide of blankets, more than any healthy Astartes would require. His bed is more fanciful than his comrades; he had always valued a solid night's sleep, even when traveling through the Warp. And so he takes his armor off, bit by bit, before crawling underneath the sheets as well.

Some six years ago... though already it seemed like centuries... the four of them had slept here, together. They had been up drinking and joking and someone -- or perhaps himself -- had let slip what a magnificent bed he had: four posters and a dozen pillows each with lace edges and all, and of course they had helped themselves and he had been filled to bursting with affection, with camaraderie, with togetherness. The thought of their brotherhood being just him and Abaddon -- or worse, him and Abaddon and Kibre and Noctua -- seemed anathema.

Like this, without armor, he remembers how similar they are. How similar they all had been. Though Abaddon was sturdier and Torgaddon taller, though he was shorter and Loken the odd man out, somehow, they had all fit in this bed, limbs and hands and kicking feet, whispering and giggling like schoolchildren.

At last, Loken comes to. His eyes snap open and he finds both his hands clasped around Aximand's arm.

"Garvi?" Aximand murmurs, starting in turn.

"Tarik," Loken breathes, and it's apparent the other does not see him at all.

Aximand swallows and then affects a lighter tone.

"Yes," he lies, "It's me. Now what was that about?" He doesn't know whether it's Loken's inner daemons or the general resemblance of the True Sons, but Loken seems to believe him. His grip slackens though he refrains from letting go and he heaves a sigh.

"You're still dead, aren't you?"

Aximand's breath catches, leaving him uncertain how to answer.

In the end, he settles for a half-truth.

"Little one, you're still dreaming."

"Oh." Loken sounds so very much like a child then, which is all the more amusing considering Aximand is technically the youngest. "I suppose I must be." He lets go of Aximand and slips out of the bed. "I'll be going now," he adds and leaves the room on remarkably steady feet.

Aximand, despite himself, trails behind the other, making sure Loken returned to his stasis pod. Then he makes his weary way back to his own room and collapses into the now-empty bed, suddenly weary, though his patrol had been cut short.

"Just a dream, huh?" he snorts.

-

Aximand -- not at all rested -- confronts Abaddon the next day. Abaddon who, despite having beaten another training dummy to a pulp, looks about the same.

"What is it?"

"It's about Loken."

"What about him?"

"What have you been making him do?"

"Nothing important." And here, Aximand gets a sense of déjà-vu, as Abaddon pauses and continues with: "Why?"

"He was out wandering the halls last night. I have no idea for how long, but he was ice-cold when I found him."

"He didn't mention this."

"Does he mention _anything_ to you?"

Abaddon's silence is answer enough.

"Ezekyle," Aximand presses, imbibed with a sense of urgency, "Can you give him something concrete to do? If only for a day?"

"Concrete? Concrete how so?"

"I don't know, cleaning your armory or resetting the cage counters, cataloging the archives, something! I've -- I've been reading about this. What he has."

"Have you now."

"Yes. And the important thing is to keep the rest of the person occupied, so that their mind cannot wander."

"It's bad enough he's been made an acolyte," Abaddon sneers, "But now you want to make him a _thrall_?"

"I want no such thing," Aximand snaps, "Don't mince my words, Ezekyle."

"Suggest something then. Something more fitting for his rank."

"We would never send a thrall to the archives, would we?"

Abaddon grunts, evidently still harboring some bad blood towards the Remembrancers. In all fairness, Aximand felt the same. Often, he thought to himself, if only Loken hadn't embroiled himself in their petty mortal concerns, he would have never turned against them, against the Warmaster, to such a degree. Nonetheless, the proof of their existence still remains and cataloging the files there is one way to distract the mind.

"Ezekyle."

"Alright," his brother growls, "I'll tell him tomorrow. But don't expect me to go with him -- I'll have nothing to do with that place."

"I expected nothing less."


End file.
